


Pantomime of Eternal Love

by foxseal



Category: Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Arguing, Bittersweet, Childhood Friends, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 00:04:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxseal/pseuds/foxseal
Summary: Kang Daniel is South Korea's most prized principal ballet dancer, but that doesn't mean he wants anyone else after him to be one, too. Least of all Park Jihoon.(Written for @nielwink_month's challenge #4 prompt: first fight.)





	Pantomime of Eternal Love

**Author's Note:**

> ☆ Title based off of one of my favourite haunting ballet pieces 'pantomima del amor eterno' [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/2cVFsCzDxOiVJ9sQLn0Zwm?si=SnJD6UJxTkCOPAafsUjQ4g)  
> ☆ Written with the most basic knowledge of ballet!  
> ☆ As always thank you to kei for beta-reading my things and always making them better than they would be... much luv and have this nielwink as an offering.

“This won’t do, Daniel.”

His arms, trembling, fold in on themselves and Daniel’s forehead meets the cold, linoleum floor of the dance hall just as he draws in a sharp, shaky breath. The seats are eerily empty, the darkness cavernous in the silence, but for once Daniel is thankful for the absence of audience—if anyone were to see the principal dancer of Korea’s oldest ballet company crumpled up in a heap in the middle of the stage like a pathetic paper doll, it would be a national scandal.

“Your _cabriole_ is sloppy, like a fish flopping out of water. Keep this up, and we’re going to have to cut you out of the performance, even if this is our last full run.” The director clicks his tongue. “What a shame—it’s an internationally acclaimed performance, too.”

 _Please. Please cut me off_ , the plea tries to crawl its way out of Daniel’s throat—and for a second, he almost lets it. But then he opens his eyes and sees the hand wrapped in bandages; he thinks of his knuckles that are red and raw from breaking unexpected tumbles, the scratched up palms from faulty spins, the bruises all along his legs from eating too little and falling over too often. When he was a child, he liked the combination blue and purple make on the patchwork blanket his mother made him—but now that he’s seen them so often on his own skin, he doesn’t know if he can say the same.

Daniel lifts his head up, light from the impact, and watches the sweat drip onto the tiny pinpricks of blood pooling on the floor under his chin. When he stands on his legs again, his toes are sore and twisted and cramped, but they, too, have been conditioned to forget pain, even past the literal breaking point.

Daniel thinks about how there’s so little of him left—he may as well whittle everything down to nothing.

“One more time," he says, with a conviction he didn’t know he still had. “One more time, Sir. I promise.”

He gets a nod; he closes his eyes and sends a prayer to the heavens for a smooth performance, just like he always does. Then he raises his arms, shifts his feet into third position and takes a deep breath. And he dances, twirls, cuts through air in the useless hopes that no one else after him will have to suffer the same fate.

  


* * *

  
  


The cold winter wind gushes into the room, and Daniel hurries to close the door behind him lest someone catches a cold—it’s not uncommon, for the students to be hit with a sudden fever from the tiniest change in weather. But when the door clicks into place, the darkness and silence register and he realises it’s almost midnight. Everyone must be home by now.

A thump upstairs echoes through the room, and Daniel grins—everyone except one, it seems. 

Winter may have wedged itself in the corners of rooms and latched onto fingertips and noses, but it can’t reach the sliver of Sunshine Daniel’s grown so accustomed to. It’s slowly become his only motivation, this Sunshine—his refuge when his limbs turn into lead, when his pointe shoes feel closer to metal cages than satin footwear, or when the blisters make every step feel like a tread on thorns.

If Daniel lets himself indulge, he thinks Sunshine is just a tad bit magical, because with him even the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of the laminated wooden flooring echoing through the hallway doesn’t eat away at Daniel’s composure like it usually does.

It can’t. Not when Jihoon turns around and gives him a beaming grin when he rests a shoulder on the doorway. 

“Oh, hey. You’re here just in time.” Jihoon spins round, the tight material of the leotard bunching up as he stands to brush himself off. The loose shirt he’s wearing is exposing a patch of skin, and it’s beaded with sweat.

“In time for what?” Daniel raises an eyebrow pointedly at the empty room as he pads inside, holding back a wince. The thick, fluffy socks are helping—but only barely. His soles still feel scraped now. “You’re not roping me into clearing up with you again, are you?”

“Ah, and there lies your first mistake—I never rope you in. You step into the trap willingly yourself,” Jihoon grins, and Daniel can’t object, not even beyond cleaning duties. “I was just going home, so we can walk back together. I’ve just finished my routine, anyway.” 

Daniel’s heart skips in his chest—lately, Jihoon’s been suggesting they walk home together more often, even when Daniel is performing at the opera house nearly twenty minutes’ walk away from the studio. In his glee, he almost misses the obvious oddity in Jihoon’s invitation.

“You were practicing a routine?” Daniel frowns. “Is there a show coming up soon? Getting your own solo bit?” 

“What? You don’t know? Maybe they only sent the message round to us,” mutters Jihoon vaguely.

Daniel whines and takes his spot next to Jihoon on the floor. It’s easier to cling onto him and whine in his face this way, after all, and Daniel is trying to find every excuse to get as close to the warmth, the brilliance and the striking beauty that is Jihoon. “What is it, Jihoonie? Please tell me.”

“Well—since you’re _retiring,”_ the corners of Jihoon’s mouth droop, like retiring is at all regrettable. “They’re holding the final round of auditions tomorrow, and—well.” Here, Jihoon’s cheeks grow pink. “I kind of wanted to keep it a surprise from you, but you’ll find out tomorrow anyway since you’re on the advisory panel and everything.” Jihoon takes a deep breath. “I got through all the other rounds.” 

The words steal the warmth out of the very room. All of a sudden Daniel can feel all the breeze pouring back in, leaving behind only cold, heavy dread.

“The final round?”

“Yep. It’s just me and one other person now."

“You’re… You’re running for,” The words won’t come out of him—only images flicker through Daniel’s head, of pain and construct and stringent rules that come with— “The principal position?” 

“Yes. I am.” Jihoon’s face turns strange. “Why are you looking at me like that? I thought you’d be more excited for me, you know.”

“But Jihoon, becoming the principal is…” _Physically devastating, soul-crushing, sanity-robbing—_ “…Hard.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, picking up the water bottle. “I know, they keep telling us that. But if you can do it, then… then I can do it, too.”

He says it with the self-assurance only a misinformed man can possess—and Jihoon is awfully, awfully misinformed, because he doesn’t know that he’s the only reason Daniel has been scraping by. That their routine of exchanging jokes and science fiction books inbetween their respective regiment’s break times has become the highlight of his week; their late nights spent together at the studio, the touches that border between friendship and something more—they all help Daniel remember himself when the currents of ballet threaten to sweep him away.

“You’re really—whatever. Let’s just head home.”

And if Jihoon becomes principal dancer—

"Need to go to bed early because I have to knock these judges off their feet tomorrow.”

—Daniel can’t be the pillar to an already-strong pillar, and he is filled with a sense of panic at the realisation that Jihoon is trying to become like him. Him, Daniel, the principal dancer with the red raw knuckles and bruises along his legs and the pointe shoes that feel like metal cages—

“And you'll put in a good word for me if I do well, won’t you?”

Daniel only nods, just to pacify Jihoon’s curiosity, while his mind unthaws from the freeze shock, flushing out the only word echoing in his mind: _no, no, no._

  


* * *

The first time they met each other, Daniel was well on his way to becoming principal dancer. JIhoon was a late-comer prodigy, but in a school of prodigies it didn’t mean much—he had a few years in him to catch up, and for some reason this very fact found Daniel hovering around the beginner’s classes, spending time in studios practicing the basics with Jihoon as if he never knew them himself.

Maybe it was the way Jihoon looked so sure of his choices, of his movements that flow from one to the other in a seemingly random yet coherent combination. He’d stay late in the evenings, helping Jihoon polish up but mostly sitting there, transfixed by Jihoon’s ability to weave classical music and bodily movements into a story, so riveting from start to finish that it has Daniel gasping by the end of it.

He never saw it as anything to be thanked for—he’d like to think they were fast becoming close friends, and that fact alone was enough a reward for him. But Jihoon started bringing in his pencils and decks of cards he fashioned into towers, his favourite drinks and snacks, and Daniel was given an excuse to spend even more time being in awe of Jihoon, whom he had taken to calling, in private, his Sun. 

“You’re going to be a principal dancer one day, I just know it!” Daniel had told him enthusiastically, to which Jihoon had just (modestly) jokingly denied. But Daniel had only told him that because he was a misinformed man, and such enthusiasm is one that only misinformed men can possess.

* * *

The audition can hardly be seen as a competition on equal standing.

If Jihoon has commanded the stage to become a place where he can shine, then he’d achieved his goal—Jihoon is dancing in his own spotlight, stunning the room of three evaluators and the current principal dancer speechless. Every step and turn, every _entrechat_ and _pirouette_ is executed so flawlessly Jihoon may as well be dancing on air—he’s light and nimble, landing with a soundless grip and proceeding to the next movement without pause. When he tips his head up slightly to follow the arch of his arms, Daniel can see Jihoon’s eyes flutter shut, a trace of a smile gracing his lips—and he looks content, very much in his element, and so, so _happy_.

Jihoon is an angel of heaven who's fallen from Eden, through no fault of his own, into this dreary, dangerous world. And Daniel doesn’t want the blight of the Earth to rob heaven off their gleaming, shining spirit of euphoria.

When the claps dwindle to silence and the judges close their notebooks—no point in taking notes now, it’s become too obvious—Daniel’s mind catches up with him.

“Wait, Chairman,” Daniel stops the announcer with a hand on his arm. From the corner of his eye, he can see Jihoon’s smile slip off his face, replaced by confusion, disorientation. “May I speak to you for a moment?” 

None of them are dancers—that’s what Daniel is here for, in this evaluation period. Of course they’ll have to listen. “As you wish, Daniel.” 

He doesn’t turn around before stepping out of the room with one of the judges, not wanting to see the look of betrayal on Jihoon’s face.

* * *

  
  


The fury is palpable even before Jihoon steps into the changing room—he just didn’t expect to be spun around from where he’s standing by the vanity and shoved backwards.

“You _failed_ me,” Jihoon hisses, face contorting into something between anger and despair.

“What are you talking abou—“ Suddenly there are fists bunched up in Daniel’s shirt, forceful, accusatory.

“Don’t act _stupid_ with me, Daniel.” It’s the first time he’s seen Jihoon so angry—face so close to his, scrunched up like a sunflare bubbling and swelling, ready to explode. “You told them to _drop_ me, didn’t you? Why else would they have backed out—they were about to hand it to me—the principal position—but then you— _you—_ ” Jihoon lets out a growl, deep and frustrated and Daniel isn’t going to lie and say it doesn’t cut into his conscience, and heart, more than a little.

“Your confidence is one of your winning traits, Jihoonie—”

A rough yank on his shirt. “Say my name properly.”

“Jihoon.” Daniel smiles through his exhaustion, the way he’s trained himself so hard for, even right before a performance. “But you shouldn’t be so sure that you had the spot in the bag.”

Red flashes across Jihoon’s eyes. “You and I both know my performance was _flawless_ ,” he grinds out through gritted teeth. “The music was perfect. I showed emotions. I didn’t stumble once."

“Ballet isn’t just about not falling—” 

“Don’t fucking _patronise_ me!” Jihoon is seething now, breaths coming in shallow pants.

“I was only doing my job.” Daniel isn’t lying when he says this, but even to his own ears the excuse seems pathetic. “I was advising the judges.”

“Well you’ve got to be a downright corrupt crook to advise them not to take their highest achieving ballerino.” Each word cuts through Daniel like a lance, but he curls his fists and takes it, every verbal lashing.

It takes him a while to realise Jihoon is shaking in the silence that follows, tense and wrought with pent-up words on both sides.

“You told me I’d be a principal dancer one day.“ Jihoon's voice breaks off, watery with the tears he’s choking back as he releases Daniel’s shirt slowly. It comes away creased. “But then—did you realise I—did you grow to hate me, somehow?“ _No_. “—I don’t know what I did, but you can hate me, whatever, fuck, but _please_ , ballet is the only thing I have—"

“Stop—Jihoon, just—stop.” Daniel takes hold of his wrists to still his movements, heart torn in two, wishing Jihoon didn’t have to say it like Daniel wasn’t a part of his life. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Do you have _any_ idea how long and hard I’ve worked for this, Daniel?”

“Of course I do!” Flashes of blood and blisters and sweat cross his mind, and Daniel realises he'd unconsciously tightened his grip around Jihoon's wrists when the other boy winces. He drops Jihoon's hands like they're burning into him, and the skin underneath is red. The very colour Daniel never wants to see on him. “Of course I do. I was in your exact same position a long time ago.” 

“Then why are you taking this chance away from me?” 

He takes a deep breath, counting down to three, locking away the words he wants to say most behind a vault in the recesses of his mind—otherwise what would Jihoon do, how would Jihoon feel, if he thought Daniel saw him as a weakling?

He just wanted to protect him. “Trust me—becoming the principal isn't worth it.” 

“Not worth what?” 

Of course the position isn't worth it—Jihoon would be reduced to mere splinters of his old self; the childish mirth in his eyes wouldn’t be there anymore. There wouldn’t be summer—only eternal winter. “You. It’s not worth… it’s not worth giving you up.”

A silence so palpable fills the room that Daniel is afraid to breathe. Jihoon backs away, scoffing in disbelief. “So my dreams, my aspirations—fulfilling my potential. Putting all my hours of work into a project—none of them will be worth it because—because you’d lose me?”

No. “No, I meant _you_ —you aren’t worth giving up—what you have right now— _fuck.”_ This is going so horribly wrong—that is not what Daniel means at all, but Jihoon is crowding him up against the wall, and he grows mute like a trapped animal under the glower of a predator. 

Jihoon opens his mouth, but seems to think twice because it settles into a scowl instead, eyes still raw with hurt and absent of its usual playful, carefree glint. 

“You know what, Kang Daniel? I have never met someone so _selfish_ before in my entire life.” 

Daniel's throat closes up. The only way to get Jihoon to drop the subject, he realises, is to make conversations unbearable—to make Jihoon hate him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t change anything, Jihoon. It’s been finalised.”

And just like that, Daniel feels like he’d cut off the final rope of a bridge hanging by its last thread. Jihoon only stays long enough for Daniel to see the tears welling up in his eyes before he stomps off, slamming the door forcefully behind him, leaving Daniel all alone in the dressing room with an icy feeling in his fingertips and the cavity in his chest where his heart should be.

There are twenty minutes left of his opening night performance.

Daniel should feel relieved, knowing that at least this way, Jihoon wouldn’t have to suffer at the hands of an occupation meant to wreck. But the chill he’d felt when Jihoon had fixed one last, tearful gaze at him makes him worry about whether the Sun could ever survive without its own heat.

* * *

  
  


The first place Daniel goes to after he hangs up his pointe shoes is his mother’s house. He spends much of the time trying not to wake up at 5am like clockwork. He moulds his consciousness into something resembling normality again, so he can take morning walks without being conscious of his figure, and eat a meal without feeling guilty about it.

And he talks, in great lengths, to his cats—his source of comfort. And though they don’t understand, Daniel holds them to his face and whispers into their fur his wish that Jihoon is doing alright. That he doesn’t despise Daniel for what he’s done. That he’ll write sometime soon, so Daniel wouldn't have to keep playing guessing games with himself.

  


* * *

It’s Jihoon’s first performance as the principal dancer.

Daniel stares at the leaflet, a helpless feeling in his chest, making him fidget in the soft velvet paddings of the seat. The lights grow dim and in his anxiousness, Daniel has to bite his bottom lip and brace himself for the sight he’s about to behold.

The dancer on the stage is moving with purpose, nimble but with heavy steps that speak of experience. His eyes flutter close, and his twirls are fluid, but so constructed Daniel can visualise all the angles the choreographer has sketched out onto his body, in quarter-demi-quarter beats. There is only bone-deep exhaustion in his every move. There is a spotlight above him, but Daniel doesn’t think the dancer would be lit up without it. If he looks closely, he can see the ghosts of hands wrapped in bandages, knuckles red and raw from breaking unexpected tumbles, scratched up palms from faulty spins, and bruises under the nude-coloured tights from eating too little and falling over too often.

The crowd gasps when he completes a soulless _grand jété_ , of course—they don’t know any better. But Daniel does. He’s seen Jihoon do plenty better.

Winter couldn’t reach Daniel’s sliver of sunshine to take it away from him—and he thought he’d kept it away from the reaches of Earth’s blights, too. He should have listened to Jihoon—Daniel was only being selfish, because now all he can think about is how much he misses the sparkle in Jihoon’s eyes, the glitter of mischief in his steps as he takes half a beat or two for himself to add a little skip in his step, pull his arms down in a grand gesture, misses the way Jihoon would bend the rules at whim because he can feel the music in his bones, lets it carry him through.

Daniel spends the rest of the performance wishing their eyes would meet just to see if, for the last time, there’s any hope in rekindling that spark back into the dancer’s hard-wrought being, to light him up into the Jihoon that they both once knew.

**Author's Note:**

> forgot to mention it's their first AND last fight kekekeke
> 
> i'm on <https://curiouscat.me/sealfox> so feel free to hit me up and scream over things with me!!! (also anon who requested a drabble... i swear i have it on my wips - sorry for taking a while! ><)


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